


Sons and fathers

by RowenaNie



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Birth, Gen, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:27:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23636791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowenaNie/pseuds/RowenaNie
Summary: The witcher suspected that having a foursome with a dragon in a bathtub followed by sex with a broody sorceress might not have been his best idea.... or Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen pregnant to give birth and to reconnect with his father by choice.Graphic birth scene and mpreg.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 134





	Sons and fathers

**Author's Note:**

> Have absolutely no idea why I wrote this, too little sleep, probably. Stay home and stay healthy.
> 
> Warning: Graphic birth scene and mpreg.

‘Geralt, you have returned early to Kaer Morhen?’ Geralt could feel Vesemir’s eyes measuring him. 

He was leading Roach with one hand. Embarrassed, careful not to reveal anything to the old witcher.

His armor was uncomfortable. To regular people nothing might seem wrong. However, the scrutinizing gaze of Vesemir noticed everything.

‘I...’

Vesemir stared at him, but conceded for now.

‘Hmm, you can tell me when we have eaten.’

Geralt nodded, relieved. Following the old witcher inside the fortress.

He was sure Vesemir had already noticed how his armor barely fitted, and how his gait was slowed. But for now the old witcher didn’t comment.

***

Finally, Geralt was back in his room, Roach was taken care of in the warm stable. Finally, he could pull off the gnawing armor. Closing his eyes for a moment in pain, as he unfastened the hooks on the side.

Loosening the jerkin; it was tight. Too small to adequately contain the paunch that had materialized on his midsection these last few months.

Certain that Vesemir would call it soft. He would ask for more training. Less food. Less indulgence. It was only in desperation Geralt had decided to travel here. And in the month of travel to reach this point, his problem had just increased. His belly protruding, bloating even more for each passing day.

His well-toned abdomen muscles were almost not visible.

There was a careful knock, Vesemir. Geralt had hoped that the inevitable conversation would wait, but there was no delaying the inevitable now. He clenched his eyes.

‘Yes?’

Vesemir stopped in the doorframe, surprised, staring at Geralt in his white thin shirt. Belly and all in unobstructed view.

Some strange facial expression, almost impossible to detect, crossed the old man. The one he had when he was thinking about an unsolvable problem.

Then sighing.

‘So that’s why you came early.’ Geralt didn’t reply. Vesemir took a step towards him. Hesitantly.

‘Have you sought out a healer?’ Geralt shock his head in shame. Vesemir kneeled in front of where the younger man sat.

‘A midwife?’ The next came out so soft and hesitant that it almost didn’t sound like mocking. 

‘Please do not mock me,’ Geralt said instead.

Vesemir’s face softened even more.

‘Flat on the bed,’ he requested.

Geralt obeyed, ashamed that his bloated belly was full on display. Even more embarrassed when Vesemir pulled up his shirt and pushed his trousers to the edge of his cock.

The other’s hand was warm and hard as it prodded the top of the protrusion. Vesemir moved his head to rest his ear on Geralt’s stomach.

‘What are you do...?’

‘Shh, quiet, I am counting,’ Vesemir ordered.

Geralt wanted to ask what he was counting, but leaned his head back instead, closing his eyes.

Vesemir leaned up again, still holding a warm, calloused hand on Geralt’s belly. Pressing hard, studying him.

‘I think you have a month more to go, maybe less, I am only used to do this with horses.’

‘Do what?’ Not sure he wanted to know what Vesemir did with horses.

‘Probably sensibly to come here, though,’ Vesemir said after a while.

‘Button your shirt again. I’ll fix us something to eat.’

Vesemir seemed very convinced that he would die within a month. Geralt wasn’t certain he was ready for that.

‘Can’t you treat it?’ Geralt asked. Vesemir looked at him sympathetically.

‘Sorry you are too far.’

‘Hm,’ Geralt said instead of saying how scared he was.

***

They ate in silence.

‘You might want to consider staying here afterwards, I do get occasional contracts, I don’t mind taking care of you,’ Vesemir said, it caught Geralt off guard.

‘I do not know what you talk about,’ Geralt said plainly.

‘After the baby is born. I hope you are not intending to leave before?’ Vesemir studied him. Geralt, who still did not understand what his mentor was talking about, shifted uncomfortable in the chair.

‘I do not have a child surprise. I ...’

Vesemir sighed.

‘We are talking past each other. I am talking of the baby in your belly.’ 

Geralt instinctually held a hand to his stomach.

‘There is not a baby in my belly.’

Vesemir looked into his bowl and kept eating. Geralt shot him a worried glance and removed the hand from the protrusion and began eating.

They didn’t discuss it anymore.

Geralt was suspecting that having a foursome with a dragon in a bathtub followed by sex with a broody sorceress might not have been his best idea.

***

Geralt woke at a pain in his back. Throbbing, maybe because he wasn’t used to sleeping in an actual bed. For a moment he thought he should get Vesemir, but when the pain subsided, he reconsidered.

It just before dawn, when the pain washed over him with an intensity threatening to rip him apart, his belly was taut, and the muscles in his back were contracting painfully. 

He had thought relieving himself would help. Drops of blood ran down his legs as he closed his trousers.

Gasping, trying to get back to his bedroom, the pain was unfamiliar, scary, rippling through him. He tried to keep his face poised, leaning against the stone wall.

Feeling bad that the second he let his face move into a slightly painful expression, Geralt looked up shamefully to see that Vesemir had seen it.

The older man’s yellow eyes closed in on him, judging. Geralt felt intense guilt, wiping all imagery of pain from his face, as it rippled debilitating through his stomach. Struggling to walk.

‘Morning,’ Vesemir said tentatively; but he knew that Vesemir had noticed, there was no way that he hadn’t.

Geralt didn’t trust his own voice enough to reply with more than a nod. Trying to walk and not waddle back to bed.

‘Are you going back to bed?’

Geralt gave a curt nod, fearing some reproach for laying in bed all day.

‘Would you like me to bring you breakfast?’ 

Another pain rippled through him; struggling not to reveal anything, he just shook his head. 

If Vesemir hadn’t had witcher senses, he wouldn’t have noticed something was wrong.

‘You smell like blood,’ he said.

‘It’s nothing.’ Desperate to get back to bed. Vesemir narrowed his eyes.

‘If you say so.’

Geralt was relieved that he escaped to his own room. The intensity of the pains increased. He closed his eyes, leaning into the bed. Desperately trying to meditate. 

It didn’t work. Nothing worked, his body refused to lay still as his muscles spasmed.

He also didn’t have any strength to protest when Vesemir entered, not knocking. He was carrying a pile of linen cloths. Their eyed met before Geralt looked away in shame. Vesemir put the linen on the chair and sat down next to Geralt. He knew he should get up. Probably Vesemir wanted him to contribute with something. To not lie idle.

The older man measured him.

‘Are the breaks still longer than the pains?’ He asked instead.

Geralt had to consider the question before he answered.

‘Eh, breaks are longer.’ Grateful that he had time to answer before another one began, and his voice would reveal him. Vesemir nodded calmly.

‘Good, would you like me to stay or leave until it is closer?’

‘Stay,’ Geralt rasped, clutching his hand into a fist.  
‘Do you need anything while we wait?’ Geralt shook his head. Scared, shaking, trying to hide fear from Vesemir was probably impossible, but it didn’t mean that he didn’t try.

Trying to ride the pain out. Almost regretting having asked Vesemir to stay, he wanted to move, to twist. Trashing his legs. Instead, he was as still as possible. Normally he wouldn’t care. He sat up.

‘I have to shit,’ he said, struggling. Vesemir put a hand on Geralt’s upper back. Geralt didn’t mean for the older man actually to help him. He knew how to take a dump. 

His stomach cramped again on the way out of bed.

‘Geralt, I need to check before,’ Vesemir said calmly. Moving the other arm in front of Geralt, holding the opposite bicep, both as an embrace and to block him from leaving.

Geralt wasn’t sure he could hold it in that long. ‘No, that is not...’

‘That was not a question.’

‘I don’t need supervision to do that,’ Geralt protested in vain.

Pushing Geralt back and loosening his pants. Geralt leaned back embarrassed as Vesemir placed his large warm hand on his knee.

He felt like pushing.

‘Don’t push.’ Vesemir ordered, a probing finger entered him.

‘I need to...’

Vesemir moved to his belly. Probing the edges. The touch was welcome, even if it was only meant to be purely clinical.

Then finally letting go and getting up. Nodding, satisfied.

‘It’s okay to go now. Just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t give birth on the floor.’

Geralt nodded, another wave followed. Suddenly, leaving didn’t feel like an agreeable prospect. Forcing himself through it, he sat up, struggling out of bed, waddling towards the door. More blood ran down his leg.

To his embarrassment, Vesemir had followed him and waited outside the washroom, and without asking, he moved a sympathetic arm around Geralt. 

Geralt wanted to protest, but the sturdy arms held him as he staggered back and offered relief.

As his muscles spasmed, he almost couldn’t support himself, struggling into Vesemir’s hold.

He moved a hand to hold Geralt’s. The older witcher silently pushed him back to bed.

‘I understand your need to deal with this on your own, but I need to check on your progress.’ Geralt nodded, leaning forward moving a hand to each knee. The last pain didn’t feel too bad though. 

Vesemir got between his legs again. Prodding. Pushing his legs further apart. Studying something.

‘You are not progressing,’ the old witcher sighed. Geralt was sweating, his hair had come loose. Hanging in strands across his face, leaning gasping over his bent knees.

‘What does that mean?’ He asked. Trying to suppress that, it was almost impossible to breathe out. Vesemir looked around, doing his thinking face.

‘Vesemir, I am not feeling so good.’ He suppressed the nausea. He felt like the little boy again in the witcher trials. Body burning, muscles cramping, transforming.

Suddenly vomit forced its way out of his mouth, just in time he moved his face, so he didn’t splash stomach acid all over Vesemir.

The older witcher, however, didn’t flinch, placing a hard hand on Geralt’s neck. Pushing him into the crook of his neck. Making calming motions on his neck with a thumb.

Pearls of sweat stuck to his forehead. The shirt was sticky. Vesemir pushed him up.

He leaned full force into the stolid body of the older witcher.

The other man leaned over, ear pressed towards his swollen belly. Regular humans couldn’t hear a child in a womb, but superior witcher hearing. Vesemir might hear it. He placed a hand on the side of the belly too.

‘The heartbeat is strong,’ Vesemir lifted his head. But didn’t remove the hand. Something inside Geralt was pushing outwards, making a bulge just under the older witcher’s hand.

‘Do you think you can get up?’

The next pain was almost superficial. Geralt nodded.  
‘You are worried?’ Geralt asked, pushing himself out of bed, ignoring the lack of muscle cooperation.

Vesemir sighed.  
‘Your pain is lessening.’ He hated that Vesemir could read him this well.  
‘I supposed that was a good thing?’ 

‘Not if you want for this to have a conclusion.’ Vesemir said, slightly annoyed. ‘Come on, moving around might help.’

‘I thought you didn’t know anything about this.’

‘Works on mares,’ Vesemir said, nonchalantly.

Geralt made a huff.

‘Not a mare.’ And not being too pleased that he had to leave the soft bed for wandering around on the floor.

Not wearing trousers or underclothes, just the white shirt.

‘Do you want me to help you around?’ Vesemir asked.

Not in a million years.

Stripes of pain shot down his back, radiating towards his pelvis. As he staggered away, a sharp breathtaking pain shot through him after only three steps. Trying to pretend nothing was amiss, Geralt ventured a step more before his legs boggled below him, clutching his belly, unable to help it anymore. A trail of blood ran down each leg. The intense need of pushing amplified.

‘Going back to bed, enough trotting around,’ Geralt said and turned around. Vesemir looked skeptical, but fortunately didn’t protest.

Panting, struggling. Unable to control his face, when another pain washed over him. Putting his hands on the top of his belly, breathing out fast. Vesemir took a hand on his elbow to assist him back to bed.

Trying to hide his discomfort, his muscles cramped.

Vesemir pulled a hand under his shirt, pushing it up.

His muscles cramped again; Geralt was ashamed that a loud exhale escaped his lips. Biting hard together, hoping that Vesemir didn’t judge him. The pain rippled through his back, his legs were cramping, trying to hold still.

Vesemir let Geralt’s cramping leg support against his hip, as he moved a finger down, prodding. Geralt desperately wanted to push again.

Vesemir sighed. ‘Don’t push.’

Geralt leaned back, frustrated.

Wanting to hiss that Vesemir bloody well couldn’t stop him, but he just gritted his teeth and threw his head backwards as another pushing contraction flooded over him.

‘Short breaths,’ Vesemir ordered, making soothing movements on Geralt’s thigh.

‘I need to shit again,’ Geralt said, struggling up despite Vesemir’s resistance.

The older witcher didn’t respond. ‘I think you need to stay put.’ 

Geralt’s protesting grunt came out in a painful sound as another contraction waved over his stomach. Something pressed hard inside his pelvis.

Only making one step from the bed, before clear liquid flushed down his legs.

‘Fuck.’ Bending over as the contraction forced him to lean against Vesemir.

The old man took a grip around him and tried to help him back to bed, overly patient. Involuntarily, Geralt pushed against the pain, leaning heavily against the older man.

He was wet, and his legs were cold and damp. He still needed to use the toilet, but gave up on making it there.

This time Vesemir didn’t stop him from pushing. Nothing happened at the push, anyway.

‘Just keep going.’ Vesemir encouraged. It was not like Geralt felt that he had any option to stop pushing.

The next contractions flooded into each other, his hair was soaked in sweat, and the muscles in his legs were trembling making him fear that a muscle spasm would make him kick Vesemir.

Something gave way inside him.

‘Don’t stop, they are out at the next push,’ Vesemir assured him. The old witcher supported something that was extending out between his legs, the infant’s head. He was holding the other hand on his knee.

Geralt stopped pushing at the surprise. The contraction pushed the baby out, anyway. Wet strands of hair clung to his face as he bent over between his legs to get a look at the infant.

A little boy in Vesemir’s hands, he freed the child’s neck from the thick purple red cord that still connected him to Geralt.

A moment after, the newborn began screaming, cramping, still covered in fluids.

‘Hold him, I am getting the knife,’ Vesemir instructed as he moved the infant to rest against Geralt’s chest.

Still screaming, as Geralt moved a shaking hand to rest on the little naked back.

Vesemir efficiently cut the cord and pulled the boy out of Geralt’s embrace.

‘I am just going to get him dry and swaddled, you should change shirts.’ Geralt, feeling slightly better, sat up, struggling with for the clean clothes next to him.

‘Wait with the trousers,’ Vesemir said. ‘The afterbirth...’ He added as an explanation.

A faint contraction followed.

Vesemir placed the little wrapped boy on Geralt’s chest, before he swiftly changed the soiled bed linen. Finally, the old man sat down next to Geralt on the bed, the small child had fallen asleep nuzzled comfortable in his arms.

The brown turf of hair on the tiny head, the eyes almost closed even when awake. The pink skin full of life.

Vesemir observed silently. The edge of his mouth showed just the faintest of a smile.

Having the look a new grandparent might have. Pride.

Finally tearing his eyes away from his son, looking up at Vesemir’s yellow eyes. Seeing a contentment there, tenderness as he observed the baby in Geralt’s arms.

‘You know, I might stay here for a while,’ Geralt said, smiling back. What was a few years to a witcher, anyway? Geralt could think of no better way of spending the next ones with his family.


End file.
